


Heart

by ledbythreads



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: 1969, AU, Album: Led Zeppelin II, Canon Compliant, Canon Timeline, F/M, Female!Page, Guitar Genius, One True Pairing, Page is the eternal champion, Page is the only woman in her band, Song: Whole Lotta Love, True Love, her gender is about the same I think, olympic studio, sex flip, so if Jimbert is Rommy this is what? Rage?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ledbythreads/pseuds/ledbythreads
Summary: This story is based on Bounce by Wet Kitty and inspired in large part by the scene in Backtracking by Tizian23. It's set in my own OTP Jimbert canon and my story Riff. Please check out the linked works <3Wet Kitty had the genius idea to sex flip Pagey and invented Page St James (not her real name). She is exactly the same except she is a female guitar god in the 1970s.
Relationships: Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Bounce](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26539969) by [wetkitty420](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wetkitty420/pseuds/wetkitty420). 
  * Inspired by [Back Tracking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23677168) by [Tizian23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tizian23/pseuds/Tizian23). 



You say, “Don’t be such a pussy, Robert” and lick your blood off my fingers. Kiss me whether I want you to or not.

I want you to.

It means I can stay.

…

Pagey is so different with John. He’s the only person she truly relaxes with. When she asks George to set up a boom mic over the drums and he’s huffing, John just changes how he’s standing, and she knows he has her back. She’d never step down anyway, but I can see her shoulders drop. She has the kit up on risers and she’s doing something arcane with the floor mics. She says sound needs to breathe. She says Zeppelin’s power is in the space between. She’s fucking about with the wires in the back of her Supro and snarls at Jonesy when he tries to help. She ignores me.

I can’t look anywhere else. 

She comes into my bed at night now, unless she’s picked out a girl, or she’s booked studio time. She flows over me like water. Dark water. Cold. In the daytime she is indifferent till she needs me. Then it is like I’m Venus in that seashell. Like all her light is on me making me radiant. I have never felt so seen. So wanted. Then it’s gone.

She said, ‘if you can’t think of anything, write a song about your wife’. I did as she asked, but I already had half a book of poetry about her. I carry it in a bag from the Punjab with mirrors on. Like it will ward off her evil eye.

…

You are pushing my hand back down towards your cunt. Backing me further into the corner of the recording booth. Straddling across me on your knees, jeans only just low enough for me to slide inside. You brace your arms against the wall, and I can’t see your face now. The lowest buttons of your shirt tails are open, and your belly has been peeking through all afternoon. I saw you sprawl back from the mixing desk and rub yourself like your irritation was making you feel empty. Then you’d rake your hand through your dirty hair and snap “again”. Flipping the switch, your voice direct in my cans. I couldn’t get it right.

You’re so wet but not slippery. I can smell the copper and iron now. Cigarettes and sandalwood. I slide my other hand down your ass to pull you to me. You let me and angle your hips forward so I can get my thumb better on your clit. I can feel the riff. Your riff. That winding, fucking, inexorable riff. I tried my best then, and I’m trying now.

“Inside me” you say. Like you are talking to yourself. 

I slide my first two fingers inside and you grind down, lost in a world of your own. Fucking my hand. I can’t move properly with your jeans high up like this and I think you’re getting frustrated. Pagey. I want… work with me. You’re all overdrive and distortion. It turns me inside out.

You reach down and tip up my face. Smooth back my hair.

“Pretty baby…” you run your thumb over my bottom lip. “Lie down”

…

She wanted Terry Reed but she got me. She came to see me in a Bentley wearing a dinner suit with a silk cravat like she had walked out of the 1920s. She asked to see Robert Plant and I was so nervous I said I’d send him over. G and Chris looked like the most mismatched set of body-guards in history. She sat over the chair with it turned backwards and looked so bored that I realised it was all an act. I didn’t love her then, but I liked her. I liked her a lot. I still do.

Before I ever heard her play, I knew what she would sound like. I knew I would follow her anywhere.

You. I knew I would follow you anywhere. I even talk to you in my own mind like you are in a story. She She She. Pagey Pagey Pagey. You.

You run through my fingers like water, like tears, like mercury. You cannot be held for more than a moment in my cupped palms.

…

You step out of your jeans and stand over me. I can see blood smeared against your thighs. Your dark knot of hair, and your long, long, legs. You laugh and crouch down, pulling me by both legs till I am flat and stretched out for you like a carpet. I’m so hard. So untouched. You run a single finger across the space between my belt and the edge of my tshirt. Then you crawl up over me till your thighs are either side of my head. Wide legged like when you fuck me with your guitar on stage. Long strap, long arms, long looks. Fuck. Sometimes I think I’m going to come just listening to you.

You lower yourself till I can reach you with my mouth. I want you so fucking much. So much. I don’t know if you really want me at all. I thought you were so mad at me, but you are laughing. I do this really well. It’s your turn to sing. Pagey. Oh god. All I want is to please you. You fuck your clit against my mouth, and I suck you. I slide my thumb inside your cunt and feel you, open, slippy. You snake your hips against my face, and you are here. I can feel your attention bearing down on me. On and on and on. I feel inside. Where your music is all caught and tangled up. I lick, and I suck, and I press. There. There. And you let go and come in my mouth. Shuddering against me. I swallow and choke. You are so wet, and so fucking dry. I don’t know if it is your cum running into my hair or my tears.

…

You looked up at me singing. That night. I was singing Somebody to Love. I though it was just words.

You were my prince. I think I saw tears in your eyes. I think they were tears of relief. You have your band now. Your honour-guard. You are Boudicca and the second album will be your vengeance. You chose well. 

Take me with you.

…

You pull my tshirt off and wipe us both off with it. Toss it back to me. You hunt in your gear bag and strap on a sanitary towel. The belt it comes with is ridiculously pink and flimsy looking. When you pull your jeans back on you look like you have a bulge like mine. You sit cross legged in front of me. I nearly came but I didn’t. You don’t mention it. Just ask for cigarettes. I try and light them with the silver lighter you gave me. The one with your initials on. JP. Your real name you said. You have not told me what that is. It’s out of petrol and I feel suddenly sad.

“Why didn’t you? Why not mine?” I blurt out.

Running my thumb over the lettering, your blood is a thin red moon under my nail.

“What do you mean, baby, what should be yours?”

“Pageylove. My lighter. Was it yours already? Why not my initials?”

“Don’t call me love” you say.

You dig round in your pocket. Find your gold lighter. The bastard twin of mine. You light two cigarettes. Take a deep drag from your cig, and pass the other and the lighter to me.

“Look. Robert. You don’t look.”

I turn it over. Warm in my hand from your body. So, unlike most of the other things you covet, it is heavy, and blunt, and gold.

RP

The letters say RP.

“You did really well today” You say “They will want Whole Lotta Love as a single. It’s fucking glorious. I won’t allow it. You need to leave people wanting more, Robert”

Then you stand up on those long, long, legs, and go and get washed without me. In the ladies loo up on the second floor. I don’t know why because you usually use ours.

I wait.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Stage](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688403) by [LadyZeppelin1111 (QueenBoudica1770)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudica1770/pseuds/LadyZeppelin1111)
  * [Dry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28047042) by [mosaicu_baby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicu_baby/pseuds/mosaicu_baby)




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